I wake up to July, water-bloated on the bed
next to me and I know, going home has never
been impossible until now. July lays me down
to split my ribs like a tender thing. The rot
from its hands metastasizes into my lungs and
now the battleground is myself instead of a
stranger; July makes of me a whetstone, a
killing knife, a wishbone to snap open. Here I
am stuck in this place again, this year’s
heatwave slicing choice cuts from my insides
and leaving the rest for carrion. Do you think
this body will survive me? July calls to me,
saying, my Orpheus, my Eurydice, my fever-
sweet Persephone and I’m telling it, I don’t
want your death but I bite into the pomegranate
one last time—the implication of flesh, my
bone-white teeth glistening red. I want to learn
what it feels like to worship someone and have
them walk away from you. I want a second life
where I become more than the sum of everything
I did to survive. July pushes me against a wall
and slips a knife between my shoulder blades
as if I’ll birth wings from the scar. This doesn’t
feel exciting anymore; the slaughterhouse drain
and bullet to the head and tolling death knell
all at once.
Editor(s): Phoebe He, Blenda Yan, Alisha Burney